


gla$$

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — neutron [1]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brother/Brother Incest, Complete, Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: to be continued in 'diamond$' . . .What could life have been for Barley and Iandore Lightfoot, in a world where familial bonds were never broken?CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot, Ian Lightfoot/Original Male Character(s), Ian Lightfoot/Wilden Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — neutron [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015329
Comments: 19
Kudos: 17





	1. gentlemen ₱refer boys

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction containing potentially triggering content, involving an underage minor engaging in incest with their father and older brother. If this bothers you in any way, please feel free to check out some of the other, far more amazing works of fiction by some of the other, far more talented writers here on Archive of Our Own. Thank-you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unfamiliar warmth flourished within Iandore's chest; partially at his father's proposal, but more-so by his acceptance.

"Don't forget your lunch, sweetheart."

Laurel's voice was lax and honied on the apex of her youngest son's ear as she presented him with a colorful lunch box, her almond-shaped manicure gleaming radiantly beneath the triumphant sunrise.

"Thanks, Mom," Ian smiled, the gracelessness of looming adolescence budding in his posture as he accepted his mother's parcel—just before being swept up-and-into the might of his elder brother’s arms.

" _Fair thee well,_ young scholar . . . And if any of those kids give you any _trouble_ , you know who to come to," Barley bade, feeling the lissome youth tense fleetingly.

"I-I think I'll be fine," the younger parried, writhing out of his sibling's embrace as an engine roared to life from somewhere beyond the threshold of his bustling home. " _Later_ , Barley. _Love you_ , Mom," Ian chimed, presenting a demure wave as he stepped out and into the early-morning light to approach his father's sleek sable sportscar.

The vehicle had been one in a sequence of recent purchases the Lightfoot patriarch made in celebration of his recent promotion, from Accounting Director to financial Controller at multinational technology monolith, _Astatine_.

But to Iandore, it was just like any other car.

The passenger’s side door was readied for him as he slid the crimson backpack from his shoulders to seat himself inside; flashing a tentative smile at his elder as he judiciously positioned his lunchbox into his bag.

"Ready for fourth grade, Freckles?" Wilden inquired from behind the polished wheel of his pearl-black Fresian; gaze mirthful and expectant as he observed his reticent progeny.

"Yeah . . . I _guess_ so," Ian shrugged, full brows furrowed as he buckled himself in and adjusted his (vaguely boxy) blazer. "I-It'll be nice to see my friends again."

And indeed, it _would_.

His summer vacation had been all but swallowed-up by a carousel of activities his father had arranged for him to partake in, the most recent of which included fencing classes.

 _'Something we can do together,'_ Wilden had encouraged, excitement illuminating his rich baritone.

But to Iandore, it was just like any other class.

"That's _right_ . . . Then in two weeks, you've got your _birthday_ coming up," his elder announced, as though Ian hadn't considered it himself. "Any big plans? I'm sure your _mother's_ hounding you to tell her where you'd like to celebrate . . ."

At this, the boy merely shook his head; the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips as fawn-like eyes studied the dusting of hair along his father's knuckles.

"No . . . Not really," he mused, chuckling softly more out of _politeness_ than sincerity as he trailed his gaze to the barbate man's exposed forearm—lightly vascular and embellished with the occasional flex of expression.

Wilden poured over his gifted youngest—catching onto the fact that he was being observed—until his profound nose caught the scent of bergamot and white florals emanating from his decorous passenger.

"Are you wearing your mother's _perfume_?" he asked, tone cashmere-soft despite his investment.

At this, Iandore offered a flush; appearing every bit the child he truly was despite his perceived maturity. Though he nodded just the same, reluctance evident in his carriage.

"Y- _Yeah_ ," he replied, voice cracking beneath the weight of his confession. "Is that . . . I-Is that _okay_? Do you _like_ it?"

And Wilden could only mirror his son's flush, unruly brows nearly caressing his hairline as he considered the implications.

"Do _I_ like it?" he echoed, laboring to gather his wits as he realized his son's visage was beginning to sour. " _Of course_ , I like it," he forced a chuckle, earning himself a tender smile. "But, _you know_ , you shouldn't be playing in your mother's things without _permission_ ," he chastised, finally reaching to shift them into reverse. "But if you _like_ , I could take you shopping for some of your _own_ . . . Maybe after school? What do you say?"

An unfamiliar warmth flourished within Iandore's chest; partially at his father's proposal, but more-so by his acceptance.

"Just _us_?" the boy pressed, doe-eyes steadied upon his father's profile as he drove.

"Just _you_ and _me_ ," Wilden assured, a contented smile gracing his bearded lips as he guided them through an indistinguishable succession of picturesque suburbs.

**• • •**

The understated radiance of that Autumn seemed lightyears away to Ian now; his father towering over him, foil mask withdrawn to divulge a strikingly handsome face only scarecely kissed by the passage of time.

"Too slow," Wilden grumbled, dense brows lowered to frame his golden glower. "Get _up_."

And in an instant, Iandore was at his feet with an experienced grace, removing his _own_ mask with a sulk.

"I almost _had_ you—"

"You didn’t," the Lightfoot patriarch interjected, blinking down at blameless eyes with a sterility that frightened the willowy youth; soon celebrating his sixteenth year of life.

"I-I tried my _best_ , Dad—"

"But you _didn't_. Your moves were _sloppy_. Your _focus_ was on something _else_ ," the elder disputed, watching as the fullness of his son's lower lip was drawn between the step in his teeth. "What _was_ it?"

Ian could only balk, uncertain of his father's impending reply.

"W-What do you _mean_ —?"

"Where was your _attention_ , Ian? Don't play coy with me," the bearded gentleman admonished, lips aptly pursed as he tightened his grip upon his sabre. "It was on that _boy_ , wasn't it?"

Stammering feebly as his complexion was ravaged by heat, Iandore parted his lips to speak only to be silenced by yet another interruption.

"Don't bother _lying_ to me. You know _exactly_ who I'm talking about . . . That _Aux-Gernons_ boy—"

"I-It's not _like_ that, Daddy—"

"Then _where_ was your head—?"

"I was thinking about _you!_ "

"You're a _fucking_ _liar_ **—**!"

"I'm **_not_** fucking **_lying_** _!_ "

And at last, there was silence; Wilden's brows drawn in astonishment before an open palm was hurled against the flushed frailty of his progeny's freckled cheek.

"Raise your voice to me _again_ , and I'll _give_ you something to scream about," the greater man rumbled—tone hardened in an audible display of dominance—Midasian leer glinting with lust.

Amber and axinite dovetailed then, senior and junior holding each other's gaze. But the glare of developing inflammation along the supple teen’s sun-kissed face caused an instinctive ache in his father's heart.

"You know what would _really_ shut me up?"

Iandore was the first to speak, awarding his mask to the polished floor before ambling forward, aligning himself with his father. Wilden simply examined him, raising an unkempt brow in feigned curiosity.

"Mind your _manners_ , son . . ."

But the towering gentleman had scarecely ended his decree before petal-soft lips were elevated to devour his own, a lightly calloused hand loosening upon the hilt of his artificial blade. The sylphlike boy’s endearment lingered ever-so briefly before it was withdrawn, cerulean lashes heavy as they obscured lust-blown chocolate.

" _Manners_? . . . Must have slipped my mind," Ian breathed, raising lithe fingers to trace along the pallid stitching of his father's fencing uniform. "W-Why don't you refresh my memory? We need to hit the showers _anyway_ . . ."

At this, his elder swallowed densely; mock blade clattering to the floor as he stooped to lift his fragile offspring into his arms, earning himself something between a yelp and a giggle.

"If you _insist_."

And so it was that father and son would reassess their private lessons in humility.

Lessons that Iandore would come to find could be cultivated several times over, yet never truly be retained.


	2. honeymoon ₳venue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a night like any other in the Lightfoot family home; glimmering tension giving way to lust, washed asunder by a flood of adoration.

Producing a familiar sequence of knocks, scarred knuckles struck embellished woodgrain with audible enthusiasm, obediently awaiting a response. A petulant sigh resounded from beyond the double doors then, followed by the closing of a heavy book.

“ _Yes?_ ” a voice rang, youthful and melodic on the knocker’s flourished ears.

“Why, _Sir Iandore!_ ” a knightly baritone countered, “I’ve journeyed _far and wide_ to arrive at your most _sumptuous_ of thresholds; and here I stand, seeking audience with—”

“ _Come in_ ,” the voice disrupted; tone laced with an indifference that chilled the beseecher’s blood.

Though enter he did, calloused fingers rotating crystalline handles as he pushed his way through the hand-sculpted entrance and into the variegated array of light sources illuminating the youngest Lightfoot’s opulent boudoir.

Harrowing novels, glistening treasures and ornate mirrors adorned nearly every corner of the ribbon-maned nymph’s leisure space, and Barley buckled beneath the weight of his own insignificance in the face of his baby brother’s affluence.

Never mind the valentine-tinted leer slowly trailing along the bulk and brawn of his lumbering form.

“How’s the book?” Barley questioned, honeyed ale seeking confectioner’s chocolate.

But Iandore held his tongue; sights steadied on the pinnacle of his brother’s crown, lower-lip gnawed in exasperation—

And with a muted gasp of understanding, Barley raised a broad hand to rip the woven cap from his unkempt head, balling it within his fist before extending his junior a shamefaced grin.

“ _Ah!_ Where are my manners,” he excused, forcing a chuckle so mordant that it nearly brought a grimace to his lips. “The _book_ , my liege, how is it—?”

“I _hate_ it,” the slighter boy countered with a practiced warmth that betrayed the dullness in his stare. “It’s for school,” he tried again, the corners of his lips producing only the _principle_ of a smile.

“I _see_ ,” Barley retorted, sunlight waning from his demeanor as he studied his dainty sibling, endeavoring to measure his temperament. “ _Well_ , Mom and Dad are doing that . . . company vacation . . . _thing_ ,” he labored to recollect the affair. “And they won’t be back until tomorrow _night_ . . . So, I was _thinking_ —”

“I’ve gotta study,” Ian interposed, full brows drawn in simulated remorse. “A-And _besides_ , you know the _rules_ ,” he shrugged, the faintest shake of his cherubic head proffered as though it would deliver all of the answers his sibling required.

But the patch-laden philistine merely blinked back at his petite host, cocking his greasy head for effect.

“ _Mom_ doesn’t want us throwing any _parties_ behind her back, and she _always_ finds out—!”

“ _Nay_ , good sir! Thou art _woefully_ mistaken!” Barley contended, presenting a gesture so grandiose, he nearly knocked an arrangement of iridescent flasks from a nearby shelf. “For _you see_ , ‘tis not always the way of revelries to be hosted within one’s own _dwelling_. Many a merriment doth exist beyond these prodigious walls! By way of _trails_ , and _taverns_ , and _neighboring_ _kingdoms_! Or mayhaps by _firelight_ , amongst the _badlands_ —”

“ _Barley_ ,” Ian interjected, supple hands elevated in opposition. “I-I just think we should . . . We should play it _safe_ ,” the doe-eyed youth opposed, pursing his lips as he watched a sulk displace his elder’s jovial countenance. “I’m _sorry_ , man . . . I-I mean—Remember what happened _last_ time?”

With this, Ian slipped from his luxe mattress, padding across the sleek flooring to light within his brother’s shadow. But Barley’s gaze was fixed upon the floorspace to his left, reluctant to offer his junior so much as a glance for fear of finding apathy embellished in mock apology.

“They blamed _you_ , Barley . . . Mom was _so_ angry . . . A-And _Dad_ —?!”

“I get it,” Barley sighed, setting his jaw and swallowing anxiously. “But, hear me out,” he implored, liquid gold pouring into hallowed moonstone. “ _Look_ , I know you’ve been busy lately. _Crazy_ busy! And I _admire_ that,” he began anew, forsaking his hat; hands raised, and fingers tightened into talons. “But what happened to _us?!_ What happened to those— _two fearless young adventurers_ —one of whom was devilishly handsome— _who sought the taste of terror and the tender bosom of wild nothings beneath midsummer moonlight_ —”

Before he could blather on, he found his windburned lips were met with cashmere softness; a prurient tongue gliding well beyond the confines of his teeth to taste the brine and brass of his boisterous mouth.

Iandore’s kisses were intoxicating to Barley in ways he had come to lament, in recent years. But were nonetheless efficient in ceasing his incandescent lunacy.

Coarsened palms reared in a show of protest on either side of the waiflike youth savoring him, but shortly descended upon the small of his junior’s back; drawing him in with a tenderness that betrayed his wayward appearance.

And when at last they divided, clouded minds and ravenous gazes labored for lucidity.

“How’s _that_ for adventure?” the slighter boy murmured, a scandalous grin besmirching his ingenuous visage.

But Barley could only nod in response, initiating their next endearment only to find his stubbled lips intercepted by silken fingertips.

“I-I . . . can think of _better_ uses for that mouth,” Ian breathed, fingers forsaking his brother’s lips to trail along the man’s piquant T-shirt and well-worn vest. “Let’s make a _deal_ ,” baby-doll eyes glinted with depravity as nimble thumbs skirted the clasp of the gamer’s shorts. “You help me let off some _steam_ . . . A-And I’ll go for a _ride_ with you—”

“Oh, _fuck_ yeah!” the fabler beamed, raising a hand from his brother’s back for a gesture of triumph. “That’s _basically_ a win-win situation for _me_ , I’ll have you know—"

“ _But_ ,” came a caveat, followed by the quirk of a brow. “If _you_ cum first . . . then we go where _I_ say, a-and you have to _buy_ me something.”

A mirthless expression marred Barley’s rugged handsomeness then, but he offered a sheepish nod nevertheless, grinning as he returned his hand to its rightful position above his brother’s tailbone.

“Just remember, my job doesn’t pay like _Dad’s_ does—”

“Just remember how _yummy_ you think my _cum_ tastes,” Ian retorted, honeyed venom on his lips.

At last, a second kiss would bloom between them; discordant and desperate and searing all at once as the strapping lout was guided along the polished woodgrain and into the fragrant down of his sibling’s capacious bed.

It was a night like any other in the Lightfoot family home; glimmering tension giving way to lust, washed asunder by a flood of adoration.

For blood, as they say, is thicker than water.

And Lightfoot blood—they both agreed—was the sweetest of all.


	3. breakfast at ₮heophania’s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life had changed for the Lightfoot family, following Wilden’s triumphant promotion to Astatine’s Chief Financial Officer. It was truly remarkable what a few midsummers and several million dollars in annual earnings could do for a quartet epitomizing new money.

A noble roar of cleansing fire danced along the flourish of prideful ears, all the while illuminating the guileless features that gazed blankly into its lustrous fury.

Iandore had always fancied shades of rouge, though he often found himself hesitant to indulge in the spectacle of donning them. But here, with bloodied valentines studying the waltzing ire of flame and ember—ushering forth the scent of a man most dear—the timorous waif could fearlessly adorn himself in scarlet’s decadent halo.

Though hesitation, both in utterance and guise, would be strictly forbidden beneath the dusk-laden majesty of his father’s vehemence.

Life had changed for the Lightfoot family, following Wilden’s triumphant promotion to Astatine’s Chief Financial Officer. It was truly remarkable what a few midsummers and several million dollars in annual earnings could do for a quartet epitomizing new money.

Remarkable, but terrifying.

So little time had passed before they were practically strangers to one another; what with Laurel making a prospering hobby of socializing and fine liqueur, and Wilden strewn somewhere between skyscraping offices and penthouse suites abroad.

If it hadn’t been for Barley (aided by an assemblage of hired hands) agreeing to safeguard the youngest of them, the prodigal son could only presume that whatever fate could ever befall him, their parents would discover through their respective assistants and pause only to convey their humblest regards—

“Something on your _mind_ , Freckles?” fell the first of many muted inquiries, honeyed eyes observing the rigidity of their colleague's posture. “You’ve been glowering at that fire for _ages_ . . . Fire has feelings _too_ , you know.”

The attempt fell painfully flat, but managed to draw doll eyes and a spoiled pout toward the source of the offending jest.

“D-Don’t call me that,” Ian contested, fawn-like lashes fluttering as he readjusted himself upon the fur-lined rug beneath him. “That’s what Daddy calls me.”

But when confectioner’s chocolate raised to greet pools of abyssal gold, they discovered only amusement.

“ _Well_ then, my fortune is _boundless_. Was I not _‘Daddy’_ just this afternoon? _Surely_ , the privilege is mine,” the bovine dandy smirked, lower canines glinting viciously in the firelight.

A light which graciously veiled the little fey’s affronted flush.

“I’m _serious_ , Briar. He’s been calling me that since I was a baby. It’s _not_ sexy.”

“Who said anything about _‘sexy’_?” the minotaur countered, smirk broadening as he observed his elven muse interlace his willowy arms in dissent. “It doesn’t have to be _sexy_ to suit you, does it?”

A tempestuous sigh glid between them, ushered forth by demure lungs.

“I-I thought you ordered takeout over an _hour_ ago? Do you think we should—I dunno—Call the delivery guy?”

At this, the crowned predator merely rolled his eyes, extending a broad palm to draw his paramour into a clumsy embrace.

“You sound like my mother,” he groused, pressing an unbalanced kiss into ribbons of cerulean. “ _You know_ , I read somewhere that three things age a woman faster than anything; stress, sunlight and smoking.”

“Lucky I’m not a _woman_ , then—"

“Between your father and _myself?_ I’d be willing to wager you’ve inhaled enough second-hand smoke to age you nine years, at _least_ ,” he quipped, earning himself a second pout. “Pair that with all the _stress_ you make for yourself, and—is that a grey hair—?”

“Don’t sit so close to the fire, sweetness,” came a velveteen rumble that sent the svelte youth’s heart aflutter. “If you’re _cold_ , I’ll leave you my pullover.”

But as moonstone met axinite, the bearded gentleman offered a lighthearted wink.

It wasn’t intended to reassure _Iandore_ , so much as the young minotaur beside him.

“No need, Mr. Lightfoot. We’ve plenty of blankets here,” Briar rang, an affable smile upon his offset lips. “And if he’s in need of a proper coat, well, I have _plenty_ he can use.”

A pause adorned their banter then; Wilden posing a half-hearted nod whilst peering into his gifted youngest as though he were ever-so hollow.

“ _Wonderful!_ Well, I can see you boys are in the middle of something, so I won’t interrupt—"

“We’re just _talking_ , Daddy—”

“I’ll just see myself out,” Wilden finished with a cordial nod to the bovine imperial. “You two stay out Rion’s hair, you _hear_? He’s a busy man—”

“Busy as I’ll ever be,” a second baritone harmonized in mirthful agreement, embellished with a hearty chuckle. “But, never you mind, Wil. Your boy’s as quiet as a mouse! Well _, the pretty one_ , anyway. He’s never been a bother . . . Can’t imagine he’ll choose tonight to start.”

Iandore found it incontestably surreal to see a man as wondrous, brilliant and immense as Wilden Lightfoot, reduced to a mere specter by the divine glory of a living god.

Asterion Aux-Gernons—known as ‘Rion’ to his kin—was Astatine’s most generous investor, occasional gambling-mate to Lightfoot senior, and Briar’s father.

Though one could never tell based strictly on appearances.

Aside from their twilight gazes and ivory crowns, the two could have been confused for an entirely separate genus from one another; Briar having inherited his mother’s inarguably more homosapien characteristics.

“ _Quiet as a mouse_ , eh?” the accountant chucked as the horned behemoth kneaded his back in a heartening manner. “Well, as always, I appreciated the drinks and company, Rion. We’ll have to do it again sometime! You gentlemen have yourselves a wonderful night,” he concluded, never once deviating his gilded gaze from his son’s, until at length he took his leave.

Though, no sooner than the double doors had closed behind the bespectacled gentleman, was Iandore at his feet; excusing himself as he sidestepped his senior host for a chance at a formal sendoff. The evening air held a bite he hadn’t anticipated, and in that moment, he wished he had more meticulously considered his brother’s advice on layering his attire before his morning departure.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he chimed, scampering up to his father (who decelerated to a halt). “How am I supposed to sleep without a _hug_ —?”

“You _won’t_ be sleeping,” Wilden retorted, unruly brows sinking to rest behind his gibbous frames. “Remember why you’re _here_ ,” he followed, elevating a fragranced palm to caress the delicate slope of his progeny’s shoulder.

And all the color seemed to drain from Ian’s sun-flecked splendor, the step in his teeth revealed as he parted his lips to concur.

“I-I remember,” he whispered, obliging a pleasant smile that brought a prideful grin to his father’s handsome face; a most coveted expression.

More-so than all the poisons concealed behind his mother’s bathroom mirror—

“That’s my boy,” Wilden chuckled next, drawing his gossamer offspring into a steely embrace. “You make them _happy_ tonight, and I’ll treat you to breakfast at Theophania’s . . . How’s _that_ sound?”

With this, all of Iandore’s troubles seemed to ebb and dwindle; embers enveloped by neon æther as he allowed himself to descend beneath the resplendent waves of his father’s protection.

An ocean of Midasian grandeur, he frequently sought to drown within.


	4. de$$ert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there, in the faint brilliance of the minotaur’s den, a silence fell.

“You _know_ . . . It’s pretty fucked up that I find myself in heated competition with so many other men,” cloudy baritone rumbled into open air; the point of origin being that of a young, rather dazed looking minotaur, whose striking features never ceased to take Iandore’s breath away. “ _Now_ all I have to decide is, which of the contestants is more _bizarre_ : Your brother, your father . . . or _my_ father.”

And it was all the timorous ingenue could do to smile in the face of his lounging companion’s allegations.

Briar Aux-Gernons was the only living heir of Astatine’s most revered financial investor, making his relationship with Iandore _paramount_ to Wilden’s commercial pursuits.

A relationship that also served as a developing source of diffidence and resentment in the Lightfoot patriarch.

“ _Well_ ,” Ian began, bolstering upon an elbow to offer his bedmate a playful leer. “If you and your Dad didn’t have such a keen sense of _smell_ , you wouldn’t even _know_ about any of that.”

He’d intended for it to register as a quip, but he could hear the strain of annoyance in his own voice. And _this_ earned him a muted scoff from his bovine companion, though the grin on the goliath’s handsome face read as sincere.

“I _disagree_ , love. I see the way your old man looks at you,” Briar challenged, shaking his head as though the very notion of ignorance was beyond him. “But your _brother?_ Now _that’s_ the real contest. That one’s _really_ screwed-up,” he chuckled, not offering so much as a sway as his bare chest was swatted coyly.

“D-Don’t _say_ that about him,” Ian reproached, brows furrowed as he strove to assemble his thoughts on the subject of his elder sibling. “He . . . He gets _enough_ shit from my Dad’s friends— _let alone_ the authorities—without _you_ chipping in.”

Briar raised his hands in faux surrender, smile diminishing ever-so-slightly as he attempted to sooth his petite peer.

“ _Right_ . . . You’re _right_. I didn’t mean it that way, but you’re right. Barley’s a _good guy_ ,” Briar assured, reaching to skate his open palm along the bruised satin of his lover’s bicep. “I only meant to say, that it was pretty obvious how much he _adores_ you . . . That’s _real love_ —”

“Well, I don’t think of him that way—”

“And that’s never stopped _any_ of history’s most illustrious lovers,” the dandy prompted, quirking a flaxen brow. “A man _in-love?_ Dedicated to a _muse?_ That’s a powerful thing, you know.”

Suddenly, Iandore found himself gnawing his lower lip; pondering the concept, and his proposed response.

“I-I just . . . I think we should talk about something _else_ ,” he suggested before adding, “And that doesn’t mean _your_ _Dad_ ,” he laughed.

“ _Oh?_ Can’t stand to confess your _feelings?_ Is _that_ it?” the hybrid taunted, catching his mate’s gossamer wrist as he attempted a second slap.

“ _No!_ No, that’s literally _not_ it,” Ian giggled; genuine, sweet and utterly devoid of unease as his faultless knuckles were tenderly kissed. “I-I don’t even—We’ve never even spoken in _private!_ I dunno where you’re _getting_ this idea—”

“Oh, _trust_ me,” Briar chuckled sardonically, hazel eyes flitting to the ceiling. “Even my _mother_ has teased him about it. I’m surprised _you_ can’t smell it on him—”

“She—Your _Mom_ knows?!” Ian bolted upright, finding his wrist still firmly grasped. “A-A-And she still lets me . . . **_What_** _?!_ ”

“ _Relax_ , little guy,” Briar’s tone was rich with humor as he pulled the sun-flecked youth against the breadth of his chest; fragrant with valor. “You know it’s . . . Our cultures are _different_ —or, by Hades, _are_ they really so different—yours and mine,” he presented another chuckle, this time in-earnest. “You know . . . The whole—”

“Arranged marriage thing?” Iandore recounted; posture strained as he labored for lucidity against the ivory-crowned nobleman’s heady pheromones. “B-But, _still_ , that’s your **_Mom_** _!_ What your Dad’s _doing_ . . . That’s . . . It’s not _right_ —”

“And _you_ letting your _father_ inside your body, behind your mother’s back, is any _better?_ ” the minotaur deflected, voice losing a trace of its delight as he released his captive’s delicate wrist in favor of soothing his upper thigh. “So, our families are a little _eccentric_ . . . Why should _we_ care? Because of _what? Rumors?_ From people who don’t matter?” the golden idol inquired, stooping to nestle his mithril-studded nose into the cherubic gyres of his lover’s locks. “The only voice I answer to, is _yours_.”

“M— . . . Maybe,” Ian strove to protest, but his senses were reeling beneath Briar’s sheer dominance.

“When have I ever given you any reason to _doubt me?_ ”

The question was a rational one.

For all of his oddities, the junior Aux-Gernons had always been a concise and honest boy.

Honest to a _fault_ , some might say; in a way that reminded Iandore of his older brother.

The resemblance brought a smile to his face—

“What’s going on in that wicked little mind of yours?” Briar queried next, peering down at his frangible hostage with a smirk on his offset lips that beckoned his paramour to taste them.

And so he did, cashmere and velvet entangling in an inelegant waltz that deepened and escalated; chaste kisses relinquished to a maelstrom of misaligned teeth and wine-sweetened tongues. Limber fingers sought purchase upon the waistband of the hybrid’s deep heather sweatpants then, but the bovine scion rebuffed the little fey’s efforts with a single-handed grasp.

“Not tonight,” Briar asserted, pools of liquid treasure catching lust-darkened moonstone. “You _always_ take care of _me_ ,” he recalled, elevating to pin his elven target beneath him in a sequence of measures. “Let _me_ take care of _you_ tonight.”

With this, he enticed another kiss; passionate, deliberate, and slow.

Iandore momentarily struggled against the titan's insistent grip—out of nothing more than obstinance—but swiftly gave in to his greater compulsion to be dominated. Briar’s tongue was powerful and sweet; delving to savor his willing captive, leaving behind the ample depravity of blood plum Umeshu.

But when at last he pulled away, allowing them a moment to breathe, he found himself hungry for more than modest endearments.

“You smell incredible tonight . . . What _is_ that?” the hybrid questioned, breathing deeply as he craned to trail tender kisses against his prey’s throat. “Like . . . _æther_ and _roses_ and—”

“You can’t _smell_ æther,” Ian chuckled into a gasp, limber fingers reaching to tangle in his contemporary's golden mane.

“Ah, but you know that **_I_** _can_ ,” Briar rumbled, teeth grazing the pronounced bones of his hostage's collar and chest before sweeping to lap at the first flushed nub he found there. “I can smell it _all over_ you,” he continued, encircling the stripling’s nipple with bristled lips.

Any contentions the waiflike youth could have presented were swept away in a moment of bliss; Iandore promptly arching into the warmth and suction adorning his nipple.

“D-Don’t leave marks,” he reminded, voice a mere shadow of its typical childish timbre.

But the looming predator did little to cease his oral assault, pausing only to switch from one nub to the next occasionally; ceasing only after his lover’s voice had escalated to fill the room, mindlessly soliciting him for more.

“P- _Please_ —”

“Don’t _beg_ me. _Tell_ me,” Briar admonished, pulling away from the slighter boy’s abused nipple with a firm scrape of his misaligned teeth. “Tell me what you need from me.”

And for a moment, Iandore found himself uncertain; valentine-eyes heavy with need as the analyzed the bronzed hunter.

“I-I-I don’t—”

“Yes you _do_ ,” the minotaur interjected, feathering more kisses along his captive’s ribs and delving lower still; dipping his tongue into Ian’s shallow navel. “ _Say it_. Tell me how to pleasure you—”

“F- _Fuck_ me—”

“ _Out of the question_ ,” Briar snapped, jerking his head up to scowl at his diaphanous prey as though the very premise were unsavory. “Ask me again, and we’re **_done_** —"

“N- _No!_ ” Ian yelped, fawn-like eyes rounded and dewy as he scrambled to bolster himself upon his elbows. “ _Please_! I just—I don’t—”

“Stop _begging_ and _tell_ me,” the giant sneered, something lightless and cruel blossoming behind his honeyed gaze. “Shall I count to three? . . .”

“I-I-I don’t know what you _want_ —”

“One.”

“S- ** _Stop_**! I-I can’t _think_ —”

“Two—”

“ ** _Suck me off_** _!_ ”

And there, in the faint brilliance of the minotaur’s den, a silence fell.

Albeit briefly.

“Sounds lovely,” Briar began, dipping to press a gentle kiss against the slighter teen’s rightmost hip. “But I think you can do _better_.”

At this, the elven youth furrowed his brows, gnawing at his lower lip as he eyed his own weeping hardness struggling against his gauzy briefs.

“W-What do you _mean?_ ” he tried, voice returning to breathlessness. “How do you want—”

“Make me believe you _deserve_ it,” the bovine noble cooed, trailing the weight of his septum piercing just above the smaller boy’s waistband—pausing to inhale the sweetness of Ian’s fragrance. “ _I_ believe you deserve the best . . . Your _old man_ believes it, _too_ . . . But I want _you_ to believe it.”

“I-I don’t—”

“Don’t _talk back_ to me, unless you’re telling me what you _deserve_.”

“D- _Deserve?_ ” the sun-kissed fey blinked, swallowing thickly as he watched the minotaur’s lips part to take the elastic of his lucent briefs between his teeth, slowly drawing them down to expose the silken planes of his pastel pelvis. “So then . . . m-make me _cum?”_

But Briar merely scoffed, releasing the waistband of his mate’s underwear with a snap against his pelvic bone.

“Are you _asking_ , or **_telling_** _?_ ”

“I don’t like this—”

“And, why _not?_ ” the lumbering youth tossed, stooping to lap up the glassy bead of precum pooling through his lover’s briefs—earning himself a frantic buck in response. “ _Ah ah ah_ ,” he chided, smirking as he placed one last flick of his tongue to the concealed head of Ian’s throbbing boyhood. “ _My_ game, _my_ rules.”

And by words alone, visions of his elder brother danced before Iandore’s clouded mind once again.

Games had always been a passion of Barley’s.

A passion inherited from their father, who taught the two all they would come to know of fantasies and imagination.

Qualities all but lost to Wilden now, under the influence of _greed_ —

“You know what I _deserve?_ ” the pastel muse inquired, earning himself a curious raise of a flaxen brow.

“I’m all ears, love,” Briar’s countenance softened as he pressed another barbate kiss into a silken hipbone.

“ _Dessert_.”


	5. ₦asty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘But, all things change,’ the Lightfoot patriarch foretold. And indeed, they had.

Suburbia had been rendered very-nearly silent by the sway of nightfall, but the Lightfoot residence was ever jovial; luminance radiating from the uppermost boudoir, recently appointed to young Iandore. As the Lightfoot brothers flourished into preadolescence, Barley eventually requested his own space, much to Ian’s disappointment. The dappled youth failed to comprehend the _need_ for their separation— _currently_ , at least—but in the months following his elder’s departure, sleep had become somewhat illusive to him.

Without his brother’s idle chatter and infectious exuberance, the room felt markedly desolate. And so, Wilden and Laurel had taken it upon themselves to ease the discomfort of this recent division by providing their youngest with a bit of companionship each night before bed. Activities varied upon the evening, but typically consisted of homework shadowed by a bit of light reading, which Iandore insisted was _not_ to be referred to as _A Bedtime Story_.

Eventually, Laurel insisted that she be placed in-charge of her oldest son’s after-school endeavors, as she found that he and her husband favored losing themselves in their tales and fables whilst in each other’s company, to achieving anything academically.

So there he was, Wilden H. Lightfoot; reclined in his youngest son’s twin-sized bed—one hand cradling a novel, and the other draped around the cashmere subtlety of his baby boy.

Tonight’s story involved creatures called ‘ _Halflings’_ , and their beguiling world of magic and marvel. Something historical and ostensibly distant, yet aptly familiar. But it made little impact on the flimsy stripling, who was had become firmly engrossed in the rumble of his father’s velvet timbre, rather than upon the words themselves.

Until the closing scene, that is, which showcased a wedding between two nobles; one of whom was an Elven princess. Their union had been unequivocally prohibited by either of their kingdoms, but true love—as it often does—had seemingly triumphed in the end.

Though, as Ian’s young mind strove to recognize the logic behind the taboo nature of this union, he couldn’t help but unleash a succession of inquiries; all of which his elder answered effortlessly, save for one:

“But . . . I thought the prince was in love with the princess’ _brother_ ,” he began, cerulean brows furrowed thoughtfully as his father laid their tale to rest upon his belly. “So why didn’t the two _princes_ get married in the end?”

This inquiry was followed by a recess, hazel eyes honing for a moment as their bearer scrambled to assemble his thoughts.

“Well . . . Y’know . . . _Responsibility_ , mostly,” Wilden replied, followed by a clearing of his throat. “In ancient times, royalty was expected to produce and heir to the throne . . . And, well . . . _Babies_ usually come from _ladies_ ,” he endeavored to roll his rhyme into a jest, but his offspring merely blinked back at him, somewhere between bemused and unmoved. “And _so_ —”

“Why couldn’t the princes just—Well, they could _adopt_ an heir!” the freckled youth chimed merrily, trusting he’d unearthed the solution.

But with a shake of his noble head, his father presented an anxious chuckle.

“It’s . . . It’s not that _simple_ , sweetheart,” he attempted, only to receive the skeptical quirk of a full brow. “If they’d just . . . gone out and adopted some lucky little boy, even _if_ they were all very happy, the heir would have been deemed _illegitimate_ by the kingdom,” the gentleman explained, offering his son’s wiry bicep a consoling caress in response to the sulk that marred his youthful beauty. “A legitimate heir comes from a formal union between a prince and princess, or a king and queen—”

“So two princes just _can’t_ _be_ together? Is _that_ it?”

Baby-doll eyes glinted with discontent.

“It just . . . wasn’t _done_ back then, freckles. That’s all,” Wilden pacified, pursing his lips as he leaned to press their profound noses together affectionately. “But, all things change. Princes _today_ have it made in the shade,” he chuckled, flashing his junior a toothy grin.

And despite himself, Iandore tendered a subtle smirk as his father pressed a barbate kiss into his ribboned mane.

“Well, I guess that’s true,” he murmured, shrugging as he examined his elder’s beard as though it were a thing of wonder.

“Is that what _you_ want, freckles?” Wilden queried, unkempt brows quirked in amusement. “You gonna marry a _prince_ someday?”

The question drew the little fey’s interest upward then; vermillion and zircon intermingling.

“ _Hm_ . . .” Ian trailed, fresh cut rose budding along his complexion.

“Maybe if he’s like _you_ , Daddy.”

**• • •**

_‘But, all things change,’_ the Lightfoot patriarch foretold.

And indeed, they had; furred knuckles entangling in ribbons of synthesized Tiffany Blue, as indulgent eyes—embellished by tear-doused lashes—peered up at their ample provider.

“How’s that _cock_ , baby boy?” Wilden probed, chewing back a groan as his junior coughed and wretched around his manhood. “You like the way Daddy tastes?”

But Iandore, for all of his heart’s desire, could only continue to choke and tremble as the bearded gentleman assessed his limits. A copious blend of saliva and bile gushed from around the base of his father’s hardness, pouring to form an opalescent pool between the greater man’s high-gloss oxfords.

“That’s a good boy . . . Hold it down,” his senior cooed, the corners of his mustached lips elevating into a smirk as he watched his frangible youngest begin to struggle against his vice grip. “Don’t _fight_ it, baby . . . _Trust_ Daddy . . . He’ll give you air when you’ve _earned_ it.”

Though try as he might, the waiflike youth had begun to succumb to his fight or flight instincts. His head was throbbing, his stomach was aching, and his lungs were burning to be filled—as was he.

“ _Relax_ , freckles . . . Listen to my voice . . . Let it all go,” Wilden soothed, shuddering as his progeny’s blunt nails clawed frantically at his thigs. “Shhh . . . _Relax_ , sweetness . . . Empty your pretty little head . . . Let yourself be a cunt for me.”

Following several anxious seconds of feeble struggle, a calm fell over the lissome fledgling. His mind felt weightless as his heart thundered and palpitated in his chest . . .

And then came relief.

The offending member eased out of his misused throat as his lungs labored for air in rasping heaves, shadowed by several heated coughing fits. But warm, lightly coarsened palms steadied him; even as he found his delicate form racked with sobs of frustration.

“Beautiful . . . _So_ beautiful,” the elder Lightfoot eulogized, palming away the mucous, spittle and tears trickling down his son’s marquis-cut jaw. “You kept me in your throat for quite a while, this time,” he commended, reaching behind him to retrieve his discarded wifebeater, using it to dry his hands.

But Iandore merely offered his father a queasy smile, shaking his head in disagreement as the man smoothed a few matted tresses from his dewy forehead.

“I-I can do _better_ ,” he panted, pausing to relinquish another sequence of coughs. “I _know_ I can be better for you.”

This awarded him a tender smile and a tempering of visage from the monocled gentleman, a treasure-hued stare reviewing his quivering frame before coaxing him into a stand.

“I _believe_ that . . . I really do,” Wilden chuckled gently, guiding them both toward the oversized mattress centered alongside them. “But _now_ , I’m gonna need you to finish me off . . . Can you _do_ that for me?”

The towering adept had scarecely finished his request before his gossamer descendant was nodding in consent.

“O-Of course, Daddy. _Anything_ ,” Ian smiled, voice strained. “How should I—What would you _like?_ ”

At this, his elder produced a contemplative hum, not bothering to remove his polished footwear as he climbed into bed to loom atop his petite successor.

“Well . . . I’d _love_ to continue where we just left off, but I think you’ve had about as much as you can take for the night,” he simpered, quirking an unkempt brow for effect. “But, you always look _so_ pretty painted with my cum . . . Do you think you could handle that? Lay back for me?”

And without a moment’s postponement, Ian did as he was instructed; lower lip drawn between his teeth eagerly as he watched his father straddle his faintly sunken chest, guiding the drooling head of his sizable manhood to the softness of his lips.

“Open up for Daddy?”

And so it was, pastel petals parting to reveal the pearl-lined cavern of a ingenuous mouth.

“ _Talk_ to me, baby . . . You want Daddy’s load?” Wilden inquired, an affectionate smile lighting his bearded lips as he received an eager string of nods in response.

“ _Yes_ , Sir . . . May I please have it?” the svelte neophyte whispered, voice sweetened and lax as he reached to handle the fur-lined rigidity before him; awarding it a firm squeeze, testing the weight in his supple hands.

With this, he proffered a series of slow, purposeful strokes; observing with intoxicated wonder as the velvety hood glid back and forth across the flushed glans, coaxing a single glassy thread from the pinnacle that drizzled eagerly into his awaiting mouth.

“Oh, baby . . . _Of course_ , you can,” his begetter rumbled, elevating a ringed hand to lift the gibbous frames from his rugged handsomeness. “Put that tongue out for me, freckles,” he directed next, sumptuous leer pouring into pools of confectioner’s chocolate; a consummation of fool’s gold.

“Like _this?_ ” the junior Lightfoot inquired, knowing himself to be correct.

He offered his father’s engorged hardness a series of deliberate laps then, massaging the dewy head as his hands increased their pace in anticipation of his next meal.

“ _Perfect_ . . . Just like that. If you keep up that pace, I’m gonna pop any minute now . . . Is that what you _want_ , kitten? You want Daddy’s cum?”

A nod in response, followed by another acceleration of his ministrations.

“ _Yes_ , Sir . . . Kitty wants _all_ of Daddy’s milk,” Ian purred into his work, presenting a venomous swirl of his libidinous tongue. “You gonna bust a fat nut all over my slutty little face—?”

Wilden didn’t stand a chance; heavy brows tightly knit as a choked roar escaped him, posture stuttering as he fought to steady himself against the weight of his orgasm.

A succession of exceptionally viscous ropes shot forth—three trailing from his son’s hairline, across his forehead and nose, and into bow of his upper lip—followed by several more-effectively centered around the sun-kissed youth’s gaping mouth and glistening tongue.

After holding his pose to present his father with his honored accomplishment, the little fey swallowed his opaline dessert, then labored to collect the rest; smearing it into his hungry mouth with agile fingers.

And Lightfoot senior found himself inebriated on the beauty of it all.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, knees buckling as he carefully maneuvered himself to lay alongside his gifted youngest. “ _Incredible_ ,” he grumbled next, finding himself sapped and winded despite his lack of effort. “You’ve got a nasty mouth, you know that?”

He shared a breathless chuckle with his son then, stripped down to their socks and Pétale timepieces.

Lost in the decadence of swanning on the wrong side of romance.


	6. ₱ositions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some problems, she’d come to find, simply couldn’t be solved through encouragement alone. And Iandore Lightfoot, was one of them.

“Do you ever . . . miss any of your _friends?_ From back in New Mushroomton?” rang a voice from Ian’s left; as crisp as it was soothing.

Twin valentines hailed each other briefly as Ian bowed into his stretch, extending a desultory shrug in response, holding his pose for a bit longer than necessary.

“I feel like . . . they wouldn’t even _recognize_ me,” he answered at length, followed by a subsequent stretch. “I mean, you know I still see _Jenevieve_ . . . But that’s _it_.”

An arched brow quirked in response to his admittance, full lips curling into a sly grin.

“Oh, _come on_ . . . It’s not like they’re gonna stop _loving_ you just because you got a little taller and changed your hair,” the gyre-maned girl laughed, cocking her head as she observed her svelte colleague draw himself inward, shifting positions. “Actually, I thought your Dad didn’t care for Jenny?”

“He doesn’t have to know about _everything_ I do, Sadie,” Ian shrugged, ears perking at the sound of empty conversation from just beyond the mirrored studio. 

And no sooner than he’d paused to listen, was the centermost threshold opened to reveal a striking Dark Elf, whose twilight features and feral curls surpassed those of the young woman meticulously releasing her stretch.

“ _Oh!_ Hey, Mom!” Sadie chirped, awarding her mother a radiant grin as she sprang to her feet . . . and then paused. “ _Oh_ . . . _Hey_ , Mister Lightfoot.”

In that moment, the emotions that swept through Iandore were taxing to navigate.

A little _too much_ controversy, a little _too close_ to people he cherished.

“ _Evening_ , Sadalia,” Wilden smiled, nodding affably. “How’re those _headlines_ coming along? Still in-charge of the school paper?”

Sadie couldn’t help but flush under the gravity his opulent leer, looking to her mother for support, only to find her eyes carefully scrutinizing Ian’s leggy frame with an inscrutable expression.

“Oh, they’re _coming_ ,” she chuckled, abruptly aware of a smoldering tension in the room. “I mean, school’s pretty _quiet_ these days. Not a ton of scoops, but I do what I can.”

“ _Of_ _course_ . . . Sometimes, your best is all you _can_ do,” the bearded gentleman smiled, locking his hands behind his back as he glanced between his willowy offspring and his Venusian schoolmate.

At this, Sadie offered a teeter of her coiled head, following her mother’s gaze to Iandore, who was studying the floorspace between his father’s Oxfords as though it were a world wonder; perspiration glistening along his dappled complexion.

“So, _Mom?_ ” she called, securing the woman’s attention. “I’m _starving_ . . . Ian, didn’t you say you were hungry, too? Maybe we could _all_ grab something to eat!”

Casting a glance toward the bespectacled man at her right, the sharply dressed woman blinked slowly, noticeably lost in thought.

“ _Well_ , I had some chicken thawing out at home, but I’d be okay with putting it off for another day if you’d rather eat out,” her mother proposed, studying Wilden expectantly.

But it was Iandore who answered.

“A-Actually . . . I don’t really _wanna_ eat out,” he began, lips pursed in apology, elevating himself into a stand. “I’m kinda trying to watch my weight, with the Dance Festival coming up and everything.”

He tendered a second shrug toward his amethyst-hued companion, who rolled her eyes before reaching to grasp at one of his delicate arms.

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” she snarked, giving the limb a lighthearted dangle for effect. “You’re _really_ packing on the pounds these days.”

Though, the situation’s humor had seemingly escaped Ian, whose youthful beauty was marred by a grimace as he wrenched his arm away.

“I-I just wanna make sure I look okay on stage . . . Alright? _You_ get curvy, but _I_ get paunchy,” he clarified, knitting his brows as he coiled his arms around his ribs. “I’m just . . . I’m gonna get in a few more fouettés here before I call it a night,” he finished with another press of his freckled lips, unwinding his arms for long enough to offer his friend a dewy embrace. “ _Love_ you. See you at school Monday.”

And as Sadalia hugged him back, she couldn’t help but instinctually trace the protruding vertebrae and sunken ribs beneath her silken fingers. The truth hadn’t entirely escaped her, but she found it more expedient to disregard it. Every time she alluded to her contemporary’s questionable dining habits, it spiraled into a rather ferocious dispute.

Some problems, she’d come to find, simply couldn’t be solved through encouragement alone.

And Iandore Lightfoot, was one of them.

“Love you, _too_. Enjoy your three day weekend,” she cooed, offering her tenuous friend a doting squeeze before collecting her duffle bag and exchanging farewells.

Leaving father and son in the company of their sun-bleached reflections.

“ _Well, well,_ ” Wilden beamed, looming over his child as a hunter might its prey. “Sadie’s grown into quite a _beauty_ , hasn’t she?” came the evening’s first inquiry. “I can see why you like her so much . . . Her _mother’s_ quite a looker as _well_ —”

“I don’t think of her like that . . . She’s just—We’re just _friends_ , Dad. _Relax_ ,” Ian sighed, tone laced with exasperation. “A-And _besides_ , you have _Mom_. Why can’t _I_ have—”

“Careful with that _mouth_ , boy,” the elder Lightfoot interjected, quirking an unruly brow. “Don’t want to bite off more than you can chew, now _do_ you?”

And with a clench of his delicate jaw, the sun-flecked youth was aptly silenced.

“Though, _Hel_ if I know . . . Maybe you’d _enjoy_ that,” the barbate gentleman quipped, the corners of his whiskered lips twitching slightly as they waltzed between a smirk and a scowl. “Is that how _Briar_ does it?” came a second inquest, furred knuckles tightening behind his back as he began an ambling, orbital pace around his gifted youngest. “Does he get _mean?_ Use _force?_ Keep you on your toes—?”

“Daddy, _stop_ it—”

“Or _maybe_ . . . he doesn’t _have_ to,” he lingered, halting is trajectory just-behind his brittle offspring. “Maybe, you just get off on disappointing _me_ . . . Hm? Is _that_ it?”

And as much as he detested them for it, Iandore’s fingers—curled into supple fists—began to tremble at his sides.

“N- _No_ , Sir—”

“Well, then why do you keep _challenging_ me? _Hm?_ ” the patriarch questioned, pouring over his son’s shuddering form. “I suppose I don’t deserve an _answer_ —?”

“I’m _sorry_ , Sir. I-I keep screwing things _up_. I just . . . I think—” Ian labored; fawn-like lashes fluttering shut as his father’s profound nose nestled into the cherubic swells of his sweat-dampened locks. “I-I-I—”

“You _what_ , Ian?” Wilden grumbled, warm hands coming to light upon his junior’s hipbones. “You . . . deserve to be _punished?_ I could get behind that,” he continued, voice brimming with adoration. “You . . . want _me_ to decide how to _handle_ your punishment? . . . _Hm?_ Would _that_ adjust your attitude?”

If he were being honest with himself, Iandore wasn’t entirely certain how best to reply. He knew responses were expected of him, but an _erroneous_ retort would only warrant harsher punishment.

Though, sometimes, he found _losing_ his father’s little games was half the fun.

“Y- _Yes_ , Daddy,” he stammered, lower lip drawn between the step in his teeth, “Punish me however you _want_.”

At this, the self-made superior drew his progeny closer still, grinding the bulk of his concealed hardness into the small of his junior’s back.

“However I _want_ , eh?” Wilden chuckled, pressing a bristled kiss into the briny gyres of his prey’s mane.

“ _Well_ . . . What if Daddy told you, that he may have a _job_ for you?”


	7. kne₩  better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midsummer recollections of his childhood home flitted through his mind then, and quaint as they may have been, they were joyous.

The _job_ —as it fate would have it—was to be a taxing one.

A rendezvous with an affluent anonymous at a five-star hotel in the very heart of Cape Hyacinth, nearly twelve thousand kilometers from The Lightfoot Estate in Aes Sídhe.

Prior to his early morning departure, Wilden had presented his cherished youngest with a series of directives that were to be followed to the letter; the _first_ being that he was to travel alone, and to pack very lightly.

So, there he was, hours beyond a day later; climbing cobbled steps both brine-blasted and sun-bleached, to reach the achromatic threshold of his ephemeral residence.

The key he’d been awarded by the receptionist appeared to be fashioned from pure lapis; cobalt blue and carefully polished as it unlocked the brackish entryway, allowing Iandore to step inside.

The suite’s interior was every bit as stark as its exterior—pale and minimalistic—furnishings included. But the scent of exotic spices and sun-kissed tides were heavy in the twilight air, and notwithstanding his exhaustion, the dappled stripling couldn’t help but inspect his surroundings.

The suite had been generously outfitted with a kitchen, laundry room, living area, master bedroom, and spacious bathroom; every window positioned to showcase the undulant splendor of the ocean just beyond.

But where was the guest he was to entertain for the duration of his stay? Had they stepped out for a bite to eat? Had he arrived _before_ them? Were they to _share_ this room for the night, or had this been gifted to him for _personal_ use? Had he crossed paths with them as he clambered up the sequence of stairways? Had they seen him and perhaps changed their mind about the arrangement?

Were they seeing him _now?_

Was he being _monitored?_

Meticulously _examined_ by an undetected onlooker?

He shook the distrust from his head, cherubic curls bouncing obstinately as he allowed his nimbus-grey satchel—the only luggage he’d been permitted—to slide from his delicate shoulder.

_‘A shower,’_ he thought, lids heavy as he made his way into the modern bath and set about shedding his wandering attire; his father’s faded Willowdale sweater, and a pair of neatly cuffed denims.

Not the most _extravagant_ items in his wardrobe, but easily some of the most _comfortable_.

He labored through the monotony of adjusting the water and stepping beneath the steaming spray, allowing his soreness and fatigue to rinse away as best he could. The provided cleanser was more luxurious than he’d anticipated; a fragrant oil that seemed to lather beneath his fingertips as he massaged it into the tautness of his underdeveloped muscles. He couldn’t help but take note of the brand, deciding that when he returned to Aes Sídhe, he’d acquire some for himself and his mother.

Midsummer recollections of his childhood home flitted through his mind then, and quaint as they may have been, they were _joyous_.

Their family may not have been valued as highly as they were in the current, but one would have scoured for _years_ to find a cheerier lot.

**• • •**

For all of her of her poise and splendor, Laurel Lightfoot—a few years shy of forty—had only just begun to grow comfortable within her body and femininity. And _truly_ , there was no time like the present; for despite the passage of time, her doe-eyes and ample hips stood to seize the hearts (or arouse the envy) of any privileged enough to make her acquaintance.

Her mother may not have endorsed her decision to start a family with the _particular_ man she’d chosen, but as far as Laurel was concerned, her life was but a dream.

She’d married her on-again, off-again college beau, who had managed to secure a job that provided just enough for them to live comfortably, soon after having been thoroughly blessed with two beautiful sons.

The youngest of whom, shared her sun-flecked complexion and candied gaze, as well as her passion for literature, domesticated unicorn riding, and homemaking.

“How about you and I whip up some Windlesoran Toast for dinner? Think that’ll surprise Dad and Barley?” she asked, gauging her timorous offspring’s fervent nodding.

“With _ham and eggs?_ ” Ian inquired; freckled lips tugging into something akin to a smile. “Can _I_ flip the toast, when its time?”

Laurel issued an audible hum—fingers cupping her chin as she eyed the ceiling—putting on an air of thorough deliberation.

“Tell you _what_ . . . You let _me_ handle the flipping, and I’ll leave _you_ in charge of dipping the bread and heaping on the butter and powdered sugar. What do you say?”

Ian had never been happier to oblige, shadowing his mother’s every move as they prepared breakfast by sunset; sharing more mirth in a single evening than they would again in the decade to come.

Laurel embodied all that her gossamer youngest desired to be.

And _possessed_ all that he would come to aspire for.

**• • •**

Shutting off the tap and reaching for one of several towels hanging along the rack, Iandore padded from the steamed glass to observe the bruised hollows and protruding contours of his adolescence. A far cry from the luxuriant goddess whose scandalous curves his father treasured above all else; and whom he knew better than to compete against.

Upper lip curled in revulsion as he averted his gaze from the visible breaks between his ribs, he dried himself hastily, then strode to the marble sink to set about scrubbing his teeth and tongue with the provided accoutrements.

He hadn’t overheard anyone join him in the suite as of yet, and upon reentering the living area to note the arrival of dusk, the lissome muse found himself indeed embraced by solitude.

A shrug shadowed a sigh, and languidly he dressed himself, pulling on an oversized scarlet flannel before ambling into the pallid boudoir and hurling himself into the silken brook of fragrant bedlinens.

_‘I wonder what Dad’s gonna tell Mom and Barley?’_ he pondered, brows knitting as he reflected upon his father’s instructions to leave his phone with the hotel receptionist.

He’d placed a few brief calls to Wilden at each layover, but seldom received responses. And so, as he _often_ did when Lightfoot senior was seemingly unavailable, he placed a call to his brother upon arriving at his destination.

He wasn’t certain how much he was permitted to disclose to Barley, but he let the fabler know—albeit in a moment of faintness—that he was loved, sorely missed, and would be the _first to know_ when he was scheduled to return.

But here, thousands of miles and over twenty-four hours from any semblance of familiarity, enervation was beginning to take its toll on the lissome fledgling.

And before he could so much as tuck himself beneath the freshly laundered comforter, Iandore had relinquished himself to the vacuous hollow of sleep.


	8. ₣orever boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the stillness that blossomed between them was deafening.

Somber eyes meticulously studied the dozing youth enshrouded by nightfall, a dense finger resting against the dimmer framing the master boudoir’s threshold. For a moment, the observer considered his intentions, dipping beneath the doorcase to skulk into the room.

In secrecy, best laid plans were intercepted; and here, held safely away from the malignant clutches of a creature most foul, his Elven muse lay sound asleep.

Bearded lips parted for a shuddering sigh—an opulent golden ring steaming faintly in response—as cloven hooves shambled in place as though their possessor were frightened to seat himself next to Wilden’s l'enfant bleu Cendrillon.

“Iandore,” his voice was scarcely a murmur as he tested the depth of the dappled ingenue’s slumber.

A second sigh, and the strapping goliath allowed himself a judicious seat next to the resting Lightfoot; heartbeat thundering in his chest as he reached to caress the boy’s remarkably hairless thighs.

“ _Iandore_ ,” the newcomer repeated, increasing his volume in hopes of a reaction.

But not a single stir was presented.

“Come on, love. I feel guilty enough already,” he grumbled next, gliding his hand to the small of the teen’s back to offer a succession of shakes—

And at last, progress was made; bleary eyes rounding as their bearer labored for focus against the revealing light.

“ _What_ —Oh— ** _What_** _?!_ ” Ian piped, clambering into a seated position (mindful of his partial nudity) within the plushness of his luxury bedding. “M- _Mr. Aux-Gernons_? I-I-I don’t—What’s going on—?”

But as swiftly as he’d beseeched the Minotaur for answers, he was silenced by the tip of a tremoring finger.

“ _Shush_. The windows are open, little one . . . Speak _calmly_. I can explain,” Asterion soothed, the gentle waves of his regal beard rippling as he swallowed.

At this, the pastel neophyte mirrored the titan’s gulp, gaze softening along with his composure.

“You were supposed to be meeting my _brother_ here tonight,” the treasure-maned idol began, vision trailing across an elongated neck to reach the languid slope of concealed shoulders. “But I . . . I couldn’t let them _do_ that to you.”

Withdrawing from the finger still pressed into the fullness of his lips, Ian balked in bemusement.

“ _Them?_ W- _What_ . . . Who do you _mean?_ Your **_brother_** _?_ ” the waiflike stripling stammered, presenting a shake of his head as he reached to guide the Minotaur’s hand to rest against the bend of his delicate knee. “I-I didn’t even know you _had_ a brother.”

“And for good reason,” Rion grumbled, combating his impulse to trace patterns along the bruised joint beneath his thumb. “My _brother_ . . . suffers from a touch of _madness_ , you see. As _many_ of us do, in pursuit of our . . . pristine little _pedigrees_ ,” he paused for a chuckle, parched and rueful as he tendered a shake of his flaxen head. “But his . . . Well, _Asterius_ suffers from madness of a _different_ sort,” he continued, axinite gazes meeting as the nobleman measured his companion’s temperament. “The madness of _tradition_.”

At this, the sun-kissed youth offered a puzzled expression.

“ _Tradition?_ ” he queried, tone lilting as he straightened his posture.

“That’s _right_ , young Lightfoot . . . _Tradition_ ,” and with another exhale—a touch less timorous than those prior—the crowned patrician allowed his palm to slip from the hough beneath it. “ _Please_ understand, many changes have been made over the course of our reign . . . Traditions are born, and then they die—As does _anything_ worth fighting for. Nothing lasts _forever_ , boy. Not even your _diamonds_ . . . But, for those plagued by remembrance, _tradition_ is often most difficult to abandon,” the dandy digressed, nearly flinching as Ian placed a supple palm atop his own.

“Can you just . . . Tell me what’s going _on?_ ”

“Well, I’m _trying_ to,” the noble quipped, bronzed arms visibly tensing at the youth’s touch. “ _Historically_ . . . once in a century, Minotaurs were offered a _sacrifice_ , to discourage us from—”

“A _virgin_ ,” Ian whispered, childlike splendor marred by discontent. “The sacrifice . . . They had to be a _virgin_ . . . didn’t they?”

And the stillness that blossomed between them was deafening.

For a time, the two merely examined each other; Iandore parting his lips to speak, only to be intercepted by his bovine accomplice.

“ _How?_ . . . How would you _know_ that—?”

“ _All this time_ . . . A-A- ** _All this time_** —Dad, Barley, Briar— _Everyone_ **_knew_** about this! _Everyone_ but **_me_** —!”

“ _Ian_ , **_please_** _!_ Quiet _down_ —”

“ _Answer me!_ ” the timid youth contested; tone diminished, but skillfully iced. “ _You_ —You’ve all been _saving_ me for some sort of—crazy, fucked up, ancient— _sacrifice?!_ O-Oh, wait, I-I-I’m sorry _—‘tradition’?!_ ”

“We were saving you for my _son_ , Iandore,” Asterion rumbled, thunderclouds billowing within his stare. “His _betrothed_ has been missing since before the two of you were introduced. Absconded with some lowborn _delinquent_ years prior . . . _Besides_ ,” he trailed, overturning their hands to entwine Wilden’s offspring’s within his own. “He’s happiest when he’s with _you_ . . . We all have our _shortcomings_ , young one . . . I’ll be the first to admit, your relationship with the men in your family is _heretical_ , for your kind . . . But your father and I agreed that so long as you weren’t _deflowered_ —so to speak—you would make a fine mate for my son, should the two of you so desire.”

Quietness flourished between them for a second time then; fawn-like eyes flitting here and there along the gentleman’s colossal form as the junior Lightfoot assembled his thoughts.

“I . . . I need—Gimme a minute,” the slighter breathed, voice scarcely audible against the roil of waves beyond their pallid suite. “Does . . . Does _Briar_ know about this?”

The shake of an ivory crown was his elder’s only response, a lightly calloused thumb gliding along the softness of a quivering hand.

“A-A-And your _brother?_ . . . Where _is_ he? _What_ was he . . . What did he _want_ with me?”

“To ruin things,” the bovine aristocrat tossed, heaving yet another sigh despite the wry smirk tugging at his bearded lips. “Caused quite the _uproar_ , truly . . . But I _outbid_ him.”

Doe-eyes sharpened briefly.

“O- _Outbid?_ . . . Was—Am I for _sale?_ ”

“With the money your father was offered for you, he could have _purchased_ the company he works for. Nearly _twice_ _over_ , in fact,” Rion grumbled, inadvertently tightening his grip upon his diaphanous trophy. “ _Fortunately_ . . . your brother caught wind of all this, and thought it was worth crashing his beat up old van _through_ my front gates to inform me—”

“Barley _knew?_ . . . He _knew_ about all this?”

“Not until _after_ you were well on your way, little one,” the hybrid assured, heeding the quake of his bedmate’s lower lip. “But the worst is behind us now . . . You’re _safe_ , and that’s all that matters—”

“Your brother—A- _Asterius_ . . . He was only . . . gonna _fuck_ me, wasn’t he?”

“My brother was going to _eat_ you, love,” the nobleman opposed, eyes humbled as all traces of color bled from the petite fey’s complexion. “That was our _way_ , not so very long ago . . . To rape and devour the young and naive, in tribute to _Saturn_ . . . Asterius and his disciples would see us return to these repulsive practices, were he the only one in charge.”

As Rion conveyed his sibling’s objectives, his spirits fell upon the Elven heir unlacing their fingers, revoking the lushness of his trembling grasp as he endeavored to steady his nerves.

“And . . . _Daddy?_ . . . Did _Daddy_ know?”

At this, the monarch offered a reticent nod; a single tear escaping his son’s intended.

“Your _father_ . . . Wil has a funny way of doing things, young one,” the elder began, lips pursing in apology as a haunting fragrance arose from the ribbon-maned fledgling.

The scent of hopelessness.

“For as long as I’ve known the man, he’s been a master at _‘playing the game’_ . . . And this time, he risked it all and earned double,” Asterion continued, swallowing thickly as he permitted his senses to be engulfed by the ingenue’s emotions. “Dry your tears, pretty one . . . All this strife has made you the son of one of your nation's wealthiest men . . . I’d wager that’s something to smile about.”

But despite his endeavors, he simply couldn’t manifest the illusion of delight.

His father’s words resounded throughout his bewildered mind.

And by words alone, he was granted clarity:

_“Is that how Briar does it?”_

_“Does he get mean? Use force? Keep you on your toes?”_

_“You deserve to be punished?”_

_“You want me to decide how to handle your punishment?”_

_“Would that adjust your attitude?”_

And by words alone, he’d sealed his own fate:

_“Punish me however you want,”_ he’d offered the monocled patriarch.

For now Iandore understood, that the punishment for disobedience, was a chance at death.


	9. 34+35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an instant, Asterion was rendered motionless at a single touch from his son’s petite beau.

Awakening encircled by warmth and musk, valentine eyes—tightly sealed against the invasion of sunlight—darted to-and-fro behind weary lids.

“ _Barley_ . . . You’re _burning up_ , dude . . . Gimme some space,” croaked the sun-kissed youth, lips scarecely parting as he presented his grievance.

But the hum of gentle snoring acted as his captor’s only discernable response; twin pillars of fervent protection unknowingly confining their delicate prisoner. So with a sigh and a writhe, Iandore endeavored to make his discomfort palpable, only to find himself embraced a touch more firmly.

Come to _think_ of it . . .

The consoling aroma of scorched firewood and charred sage—which he so frequently attributed to his brawny sibling—was nowhere to be found; supplanted by the scent of smoked vanilla, and cinnamon whisky.

Tentatively, he opened his left eye, squinting against the merciless dawn. Though he swiftly realized the pallidity of his surroundings—

“B- ** _Barley_** _?!_ ” Ian yelped, straining against his resting abductor, who snorted to life with a bark of his own.

“ _Iandore_ —What—Are you _alright?_ ” Asterion grumbled, voice darkened by fatigue as he winced against the sunrise.

And with a frightened whirl, the clamoring youth was silenced; fawn-like eyes contritely observing the solid colossus of precious metals scrubbing at their bleary eyes.

“R . . . _Rion_ ,” the dappled junior breathed, permitting his anxiety to fade at the sight of his father’s gambling partner. “I-I’m _really_ sorry . . . I-I-I forgot where I—”

“Quite alright, my dear . . . Seems I may have slept in,” the titan grunted. “I thought I told that _blasted_ receptionist to have us up _before_ dawn . . . Never trust a _Satyr_ to do a _Centaur’s_ job,” the horned monarch grouched, flinging his blankets aside to reveal a rather luxuriant pair of boxer-briefs, resting just beneath the humble swell of a sturdy gut.

It was the first time the docile teen had ever laid eyes upon Aux-Gernons senior in any manner of undress, and the sight brought both a frenzied rouge and a sheepish grin to his flecked visage.

Considering the semi-solidity of Rion’s physique, he couldn’t help but pardon himself for mistaking the bearded dandy for his riotous kin.

“W- _Wait_ —” Ian appealed, seizing one of the lumbering nobleman’s sizable fingers. “ _What_ . . . Why would we need to be up before _dawn?_ ” he queried, peeking out from beneath a bedraggled sea of lightened coils. “I-Is something going _on?”_

And in an instant, Asterion was rendered motionless at a single touch from his son’s petite beau.

“ _Well_ . . .” the patrician began, nose twitching against the weight of its golden ring, “I . . . I _know_ it won’t bring me any _peace_ . . . But I wanted to speak with my brother in a _civilized_ manner, if possible, before our departure this evening.”

For a time, the two rested in mutual reticence, each anticipating a reaction from the other.

“Y-You . . . You were going to see _Asterius?_ ” came the boy’s next inquiry, tone faltering beneath the reference to his former pursuer. “But . . . _why?_ What if he . . . What if he _hurts_ you?”

But the shimmering glory of the giant’s amusement expanded to gild the air about them, prompting his bedmate’s flush to deepen that much more.

“Well, _you see_ . . . My _brother_ and I, we . . . Rather, to put it _simply_ —”

A metallic pulsation interrupted the bronzed Minotaur then, dual moonstone gazes flitting to the colorless nightstand. And with an air of indecision, the gentleman answered his call.

“ _Morning_ , darling _. . . Ah_. I _see_. Well, is everything _alright_ , then? . . . _No, no._ I was just speaking to last night’s _dinner_ ,” he attempted to jest, tossing a ludicrous wink at his timorous comrade (who visibly grimaced in return). “ _Indeed_ . . . Well, we know these things come and go with the moon.”

Round and round they seemed to go, as casually as one might expect of lovers bound by matrimony.

In the interim, so as to allow his father’s colleague some privacy, the ribbon-maned ingenue slipped from the cashmere labyrinth to make his way into the bathroom; finding it taxing to complete his morning routine given Asterius’ request that he limit himself to his essentials.

Though as he padded back into the living area—oversized flannel hanging from his petite frame—he found his bovine lover’s father reclined upon the sofa; rounded spectacles resting awkwardly against his animalic features as he examined his cellphone.

“I texted your brother,” the monarch initiated, followed by a clear of his throat. “He’s placed quite a few calls to you,” he added with a nod toward the crimson device positioned upon the edge of a sandstone end table. “And so has your _father_.”

At this, a clash of axinite; graceful feet taking reticent steps toward their destination, where quivering hands plucked the garnet mobile from its resting place.

Undeniably, the number of missed calls, voicemails, and unread messages was astonishing. Though one succession of texts in _particular_ caught the stripling’s rounded eye.

These being from his _mother_.

_‘Hope you’re enjoying your weekend vacation! Cape Hyacinth is incredible! So much to do and see.’_

_‘My little boy is all grown up! Off on his first adventure overseas…’_

_‘I was worried sick until I found out you had a chaperone. Your father never tells me anything!’_

_‘Mama loves you, sweetie. Take lots of pictures! Can’t wait to hear about your trip! Mwah!’_

Laruel’s optimism persuaded a delicate smile to flourish upon her youngest’s freckled lips, though he couldn’t help contemplating which of Wilden’s tales had inspired her tranquility regarding his departure.

Continuing to missives from his brother and father, the divergence in tone was practically comical, given the circumstances.

From Barley, a succession of flustered inquiries about his wellbeing, that progressively eased into mischievous banter following communication with Aux-Gernons senior.

And from their head of household, absolute silence until well-into the previous evening, where he then applauded his passive offspring on his acceptance of the starring role in his premeditated bait-and-switch maneuver.

 _‘You make Daddy so proud, baby boy… A stellar performance. You really are a work of art,’_ he commended, followed by a screenshot of their banking statement.

A transaction beginning in thirty-four, closely shadowed by a second opening in thirty-five; each embellished with a mystifying abundance of ciphers.

But to Iandore, they were just like another number.


	10. ₲reedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second waltz of amber and axinite.

They hadn’t even made it from the airport parking lot.

No sooner than the Lightfoot brothers had closed themselves within the patchwork walls of Barley’s handcrafted haven, was his junior dragging him into the rear of his van; tugging at his clothes and showering him with kisses.

The older attempted to protest, or reason with the docile teen whose lips and teeth hung from his own. But Iandore would hear nothing of it, supple fingers slipping beneath the sweat-dampened layers of the Quest Master’s haphazardly selected attire.

“I _missed_ you, Barley,” the doe-eyed youth breathed against familiar lips both chapped and bristled. “Did you miss _me?_ ”

And Barley’s world was rose and æther; an ethereal aroma his sibling donned in place of anyone else’s brine. Every silken inch of Ian’s awkward adolescence was a wonder to the denim-clad explorer.

And that wonder, he repeatedly found to be his undoing.

“Of _course_ I missed you,” he murmured into venomous nectar. “But we— _Mmm_ —We really need to talk about—”

“ _You_ can talk about it while you’re in my throat,” Wilden’s youngest giggled, acumen dimmed by hunger as he fumbled with the clasp and zipper of his brother’s paint-flecked denims. “Kinda had a rough trip.”

“No _shit_ ,” Barley quipped, unable to chew back a grimace at his sibling’s indifference regarding his holiday. “It was _fucked_ ,” the gamer grumbled, sinking misaligned teeth into the junction between his brother’s neck and shoulder, eliciting a strained gasp. “I coulda _lost_ you.”

Lines had already been crossed, but poised within their bastion of unpolished steel, they next began to blur.

Ravenous kisses spiraled into suckles and bites, forbidden lovers possessed by demons of carnal desire: their heavenly bodies a flushing scatter of unbalanced limbs adorning the soiled floor.

And at the height of it all—half undressed and reclined against the vintage paneling—the fabler watched as his willowy sibling devoured his oversized manhood; petal-soft lips carefully draped around faintly skewed teeth as the little heir swallowed musk and mithril and granitic rigidity.

“Sweet fuckin’ _Freyja_ ,” Barley groaned, disheveled brows tightly knit in reverence and marvel as he witnessed his cock disappear within the libidinous void of his junior’s throat. “I dunno how you _do_ it, baby . . . You’re so fuckin’ _good_.”

And the chuckle this praise incited from his petite addiction only served to sweeten his indulgence, bitter breath shuddering as he relished the sight of his brother’s profound nose nestled in the azure pelt lining the base of his hardness.

Doe-eyes welled; years of trust and adulation echoed therein—purity a clever disguise for the awful creature lingering just behind the childlike curtain.

In due time, tremulous sputters yielded to hoarse chokes, dense brows furrowing as self-loathing lapped at the illusion of ego. And at last, the freckled muse wrenched himself from his elder’s endowment, tears and spittle mingling at his chin as he eyed the mithril ring glistening arrogantly from the hooded pinnacle, mocking him from its deep-seated locus, challenging him to aspire to more.

And so he did—disallowing himself the time to mollify his breathlessness as he steadied his quivering lips around the bell-shaped head, swallowing deeply—and with every prideful inch, another string of mindless blather from the brawny raconteur.

“Holy _fuck_ , Ian . . . You’re _too_ _good_ for me, baby bro . . . _Where_ did you— ** _Fuck_** — _How_ did you get so _good_ at this?”

But as the last of his length was lovingly accepted, and mucous joined the tears and drivel pooling in his pelvic curls, the strapping bard determined that he no longer required a response; for any action necessitating a moment’s loss of precious contact with the balmy velvet of his brother’s greedy orifice, was an expense neither of them were willing to spare.

“I’m not gonna _last_ if you keep that up,” the elder Lightfoot gritted, filthy nails burrowing into coarsened palms at his sides, battling his greater instincts to buck into the polished heat and shallow oscillation engulfing his manhood. “I’m _serious_ , Ian,” he warned, lost within the misted valentines of his junior’s leer. “ ** _Fuck_** , I’m gonna—”

Sweltering ropes of viscous seed erupted to embellish the stripling’s throat with bitter pearls, while strangled roars escalated to fill the hallowed space between them—a graceless stutter of furred hips endeavoring to guide the last of his orgasm squarely into his sibling’s belly.

And with a shuddering collapse, the golden-tongued philistine conceded to his afterglow; grunting as he allowed his softening member to slip from Ian’s tender hollow, where frantic lungs labored for lifegiving air.

Through the haze of his warmth and satisfaction, Barley extended a balmy hand to soothe the svelte luminary, steadying him as best he could despite their mismatched stances.

“ _Merlin’s beard_ ,” he panted, perspiration gathering at his ungroomed brows. “That was . . . You’re _unreal_ ,” he lauded, watching as his sibling eyed the lucent spill upon his pelvis. “ _Oh_ , don’t worry about that. Plenty of shop towels back here,” he grinned, savoring his opportunity to witness his junior a touch unraveled.

A rare treat.

“They’re around here _somewhere_ —”

“Got ‘em,” the sun-kissed youth announced, producing them with a reticent smile as he set about cleaning them up, earning himself a gratuitous hum from his bewildered kin.

“I feel like _I_ should be the one cleaning us up,” the teller chuckled, scrubbing his brow on the back of his hand. “ _You_ did all the hard work . . . I just kicked back.”

But Ian merely rolled his reddened eyes, sniffling quietly behind his smirk.

“Maybe next time,” he shrugged, lashes lowered as he endeavored to dry the matted curls at the base of his brother’s pierced girth. “You could have _showered_ before you came to pick me up, man . . .”

“Well, how was _I_ supposed to know you were gonna _jump_ me as soon as we were back in the van? . . . You hardly _ever_ wanna . . . do this with me anymore.”

“ _Least_ I could do . . . You basically _totaled_ this piece of shit trying to be a _hero_ ,” the younger quipped, bloodied chocolate hailing honeyed olive.

“ _Hey!_ ” Barley challenged, barbed lips tugged into a mischievous smirk. “Gwinny’s all I’ve _got_ . . . Well, besides _you_ . . . What was I _supposed_ to do? Just let him fuckin’ _eat_ you—?”

“You didn’t have to _worry_ , Barley,” Ian murmured, examining the waves and roils of hair trailing from his brother’s flaccid member. “Things aren’t always what they _seem_ ,” he continued, easing his carriage.

Incredulity soured the quester’s visage.

“ _What_ . . . What do you _mean?_. . . Dad—I heard _Dad_ —I _heard_ him on the _phone_ , planning all this _out_ —”

“Daddy used you, Barley . . . He _used_ you,” the passive teen confessed, shadowed by a shake of cherubic gyres. “He used _me_ , too . . . And _Rion_ —He used _all_ of us. ”

Quiet settled between them then, poisoned by unbalanced understanding.

“But the voice on the _phone_ —”

“Was Briar’s _Dad_ ,” the dappled junior interjected, guiltless eyes dissecting the patterns of his elder’s well-worn band tee. “His brother, _‘Asterius’_ . . . He _isn’t_ . . . I-It’s all in his _head_.”

A second waltz of amber and axinite.

“He called it, _‘madness’_ , but—It’s like another side of him . . . He doesn’t even know it’s _there_ ,” he continued, watching the color drain from his brother’s face. “I-It took me a while to _catch_ _on_ , but . . . It was all just a _hoax_ , Barley . . . Just another one of Dad’s _stupid_ little games—A-And _you_ _and I?_. . . We _won_ it for him.”

Following an anxious swallow, his humbled sibling adjusted his posture; calloused hands extending to light upon the placid slope of delicate shoulders.

“ _So_ . . . So you were there _with_ him the _entire_ _time_ ,” the voyager muttered, heartbeat thundering in his flourished ears. “ _He_ —He could have _lost_ _it_ at _any_ _time_ . . . He could have—”

“Daddy always said I was his _lucky charm_ ,” breathed Iandore, elevating supple palms to still the quivering of his brother’s.

“Well . . . Maybe _my_ lucky charm is _you_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always open to receiving constructive criticism. Thank-you so much for stopping by.


End file.
